Early in May the weather became much warmer. I no longer had to wear a coat and two cardigans when working in the library. The big room filled with light. The index cards marched steadily across the shoeboxes and everywhere I looked there was evidence of my industry. I felt better in other ways, too. On some days I hardly thought about Henry at all.
One Tuesday afternoon I was sitting at the table when I heard the door opening at the other end of the room. I assumed it was Canon Hudson or Janet or even Mr Gotobed, the assistant verger, who had a habit of popping up unexpectedly in the Cathedral or the Close. I turned in my chair and found myself looking up at David.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting you. The dean’s trying to track down a model of the Octagon, and there’s a possibility it may be in here.’
I screwed the cap on my fountain pen. ‘Not that I’ve seen, I’m afraid. But please have a look.’
He glanced round the library and smiled. ‘It’s looking much more organized than when I last saw it.’
‘So it should be,’ I said. ‘Now what about this model?’
‘The dean thought it might be in one of the cupboards.’
He nodded towards the long cupboard behind the table where I worked. It was about six feet high and built of dark-stained pine. Canon Hudson had told me that before the room was converted to the library, it had been used as the choir vestry and the cupboard had probably been built to house cassocks and surplices. It was full of rubbish now, he’d said, and when Gotobed had a spare afternoon he would investigate it properly. I’d tried the doors but they were locked.
David produced a key and unlocked the nearest door. Then he opened the other two, pulling open the three sets of double doors so the whole cupboard filled with light. What I noticed first was the skeleton of a mouse lying at the foot of one of the doors. Dust was everywhere, soft and gritty. I saw a bucket, a small mountain of prayer books, an umbrella stand, a stack of newspapers, an object like a wooden crinoline with a torn surplice draped over it, a clump of candlesticks, some of which were taller than me, a lectern, empty bottles and a cast-iron boot-scraper. I bent down to pick up one of the newspapers. It was a copy of the Rosington Observer from 1937.
‘There we are.’ David lifted the ragged surplice from the ecclesiastical coat hanger. ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? I wonder who made it.’
‘Is that it?’
He shot me an amused glance. ‘Were you expecting something more lifelike? This shows what you don’t see – the skeleton supporting the whole thing.’ He flapped the surplice at the model, dislodging some of the dust. ‘It’s very elegant. A mathematical figure in wood. If I get the dust off, do you think you could help me lift it out?’
I ended up doing the dusting myself. Then we lifted the model out of the cupboard. It stood like the skeleton of a prehistoric animal on the library carpet.
‘It’s as if it’s got eight legs,’ I said.
‘Each of them rests on top of one of the pillars below. They’re beams supporting almost all the weight. Amazing, really – nearly sixty feet long, and they taper from just over three feet at the base to twelve inches at the top where they meet the angles of the lantern.’
His long fingers danced over the wooden framework. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I really didn’t try. I was too taken up watching how his hands moved and the expression on his face.
‘And then look how they twisted the lantern itself round so its sides are above the angles of the stone Octagon below. It splits the weight of each angle of the wooden Octagon between two pairs of these main beams that run down to the piers of the stone Octagon. Its legs, as you said.’ Suddenly he broke off, frowning. ‘But there should be a spire. Where do you think it’s got to?’
I pointed into the cupboard at what I had assumed was an umbrella stand. Admittedly it was a peculiar shape for the purpose but it did have a broken umbrella jammed into it. With a cry of triumph David lifted it out. I applied the duster and then he raised it on top of the model of the Octagon. It slotted into place. We both stood back to admire it. The whole model now stood over six feet high. Nearly two feet of this was the slender framework of the spire, also octagonal.
‘It’s based on the Octagon at Ely,’ David was saying. ‘Ours is five or ten years later and rather smaller. In one sense it looks as if Ely was the apprentice work. Ours is much lighter – physically lighter, and also the windows in the lantern are larger. And we’ve got a spire which here is an integral part of the design.’
He was like a boy in his pleasure. It had never struck me before how attractive enthusiasm can be, the sort of enthusiasm that reaches out to other people.
‘What are you going to do with this?’ I asked him.
‘We’re planning an exhibition. The dean thinks we should do more to attract the tourists. Without the income we get from them it would be very difficult to run this place. Do you think I could leave it in that corner for now? He’ll want to come and see it. But would it be in your way?’
We moved the Octagon where he suggested. David glanced at the table where I worked, which was underneath one of the windows.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m nearly halfway, I think. I had to have a week off over Easter.’
‘Any surprises?’
‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
He stared at me, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘I gave it to Canon Hudson.’ I decided not to mention that I had read it first. ‘Apparently it’s the unexpurgated 1928 edition and it might be worth something.’
‘But we’d have to sell it anonymously.’ He gestured towards my card index. ‘I’d like to have a look through there sometime, if I may.’
My excitement drained away. Indeed, up to that moment I hadn’t been aware I was excited, only that I was enjoying myself. But now it was spoiled. Suddenly it seemed improbable he was interested in what was in the library for its own sake. Perhaps this was something to do with his campaign for the Theological College.
‘I’m sure Canon Hudson wouldn’t mind,’ I said.
‘I’d better leave you to your labours.’
At the door he paused. ‘By the way, I should thank you.’
‘It’s nice to have an excuse for a break.’
‘I don’t just mean now. I mean at home. I don’t know how Janet would have managed without you. Especially with her father around.’
I felt myself blush. I couldn’t stand much more of this new David, considerate, enthusiastic and worst of all grateful.
‘Of course, I’m not sure how long he’ll be with us,’ he said, and the old David emerged once again. ‘In the nature of things it can’t be for ever.’ Then he smiled and the gears of his personality shifted again. ‘Bless you,’ he said, as priests do, and slipped out of the library.
I think coincidence is often a label we attach to events to confer a fake significance on them. But it makes me feel uncomfortable that on the same afternoon, a few minutes after David left, I had my first encounter with Francis Youlgreave.
I was cataloguing Keble’s three-volume Works of Richard Hooker. On the flyleaf of the first volume, opposite the bookplate of the dean and chapter, was the name F. St J. Youlgreave. Presumably Youlgreave had owned the book and later presented it to the library.
There was a strip of paper protruding from the second volume. I took it out. The top was brown and flaky where it had been exposed to the air but most of the strip had been trapped between the pages. It looked like a makeshift bookmark torn from a larger sheet. Both of the longer edges were ragged. One side was blank. On the other were several lines of writing in ink that had faded to a dark brown.
… a well-set-up boy perhaps twelve years old. He said he was going to visit his sister and their widowed mother who lodge in Swan Alley off Bridge Street. His name is Simon Martlesham and he works at the Palace where he cleans the boots and runs errands for the butler. It is curious how people of his class, even the younger ones, smell so unpleasantly of rancid fat. But when I gave him sixpence for helping me back to the house, he thanked me very prettily. He may be useful for …
Useful for what?
I made a note of where I had found the scrap of paper and put it to one side to show Canon Hudson. I didn’t like the comment about the smell of rancid fat. I wondered what the boy had told his mother and sister when he finally reached home in Swan Alley. I made a note of Youlgreave’s name on the index card for the Works of Richard Hooker.
I went back to the pile of books on my table and worked for another half an hour. I was on the verge of going out for a cigarette and a cup of tea when the door opened and Janet came in. She was rather pale and breathing hard.
‘Help!’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what David’s done. He’s asked Canon Osbaston to dinner.’